Sympathy for the Devil
by beeeinyourbonnet
Summary: In her biggest act of defiance to date, Belle refuses to leave the Dark Castle when Rumpelstiltskin casts her out.
1. Chapter 1

Belle had been sitting in the dungeon for three days since Rumpelstiltskin had insisted she leave. She had delivered her lecture, given him the cutting remarks he deserved for trying to break her heart, but in the end, she had refused to go. He had kicked and screamed and made quite a lot of sense, but Belle knew in her heart that she had much more sense than he did, so she had closed her mouth and her eyes, and taken a seat on the bench in her cell. When she'd opened her eyes, Rumpelstiltskin was gone.

For three days, there had been no sign of him. He had not brought food nor water, had not even walked down to check on her. Part of her was afraid that he was retaliating by starving her to death, but the rest of her had faith. He may have been hotheaded and unreasonable, but despite what he had said, he loved her, and he would never let her waste away.

She sat, hands clasped in her lap with the resolution of one awaiting execution. Her hunger and thirst was making her dizzy, but she dealt with that by sitting still and closing her eyes.

That evening, when she awoke from a brief dizzy-spelled nap, she found a pitcher of water and a clean glass next to her on the bench.

* * *

The water had restored some of her strength. By the fourth day, the dizziness was coming less frequently, and her hope had swelled. She took the water to be a symbol of truce, though he did not yet have the courage to face her, and the fact that it never emptied meant that he wanted her to live.

As much as she hated this, she had to admit that she understood it. She shouldn't have expected him to come to grips with his feelings—there had only been a few hours between him setting her free and her returning to turn his world upside down. Showing a man who believed himself a monster that he was cared for and loved took time and patience. She should have confessed it to herself before confessing to him, and then she might not have taken him so off-guard. He would have been able to see it in every gesture, every remark, every touch.

Even had that been the case, though, she understood that he needed to reject her. Being in love, and catering to the whims of True Love, was something that took control away from him, and she had brought it on him too fast. He needed to feel the control so that he could learn to get around it, to give some of it up, to come to grips with the fact that love had found him and wasn't leaving.

It was this that made her stay. Part of her felt like a doormat for staying when he had hurt her so, but another part, a part just as defiant, wanted to prove him wrong. She could love him. She did love him. She would always love him.

* * *

On the morning of the fifth day, Belle noticed that the sunlight was a little brighter, a little fresher. When she looked at the window, it looked as though it had tripled in size. The bars were now far apart enough for her to fit through. Belle smiled and settled in to watch the sunrise.

* * *

That evening, there was a knock on her cell door. Belle hadn't used her voice in five days, and she was weak with hunger, so she didn't trust herself to answer. It didn't matter, because he would have come in anyway. The door opened of its own accord to reveal Rumpelstiltskin standing in front of it, carrying a tray of covered dishes. His back was as straight as the bars on her window, and he was looking ahead as though she didn't exist.

She took a sip of water. "Hello, Rumpelstiltskin." Her voice was hoarse, and she saw him close his eyes. It was like watching him stitch himself together—first his eyes closed, then he took a deep breath, clenched his teeth, shook his head, and opened them again. When he did, his impish smile was on.

"I thought you might be hungry, dearie, so I brought you a crust of bread." He giggled his evil giggle, the one he hadn't used near her in months.

She turned her head away.

And just like that, the ball was in her court. He followed her with his gaze like their heads were connected by a thread, and she forced herself not to react. He didn't speak, and she could tell he wanted to. She let the silence drag for an entire minute before turning her head to look at him.

"You know my name," she said.

Whatever he had been expecting her to say, it didn't seem to be this. He almost dropped the tray, but recovered it and cleared his throat.

"I thought you might be hungry—Belle—so I brought you a crust of bread." He did not giggle this time, and instead stretched his lips across his tombstone teeth in a humorless grin.

"You may leave it on the bench, Rumpelstiltskin." She didn't move, just watched him with a plain, unabashed gaze.

He set the tray down where indicated, and before she could thank him, vanished in a puff of smoke. The door replaced itself.

It had not been perfect, but it was a start. Belle looked at the tray, and licked her lips. It may only have been a crust of bread, but she was willing to bet that it would be the best bread crust she'd ever eaten.

When she opened the lid, however, there was no crust. Instead, he had filled a bowl to the brim with leftover stew, washed half a dozen strawberries, and removed the crusts from three slices of bread. The chuckle had barely left her mouth before she was tearing in.

* * *

By the sixth night, he had not brought any more food, but she had expected this and rationed out what he had brought the previous night. She ate one strawberry an hour, and then one piece of bread each hour after that. He appeared just after sundown with another tray. This time, he didn't speak, he just set the tray down and retreated to the other corner of the cell. They watched each other for a minute, neither speaking, and then Rumpelstiltskin disappeared.

He began bringing regular meals. On the eighth morning, he brought breakfast. That evening, dinner came again. He added lunch on the tenth. On the eleventh, he brought tea. If they spoke, it was short, and in general, he seemed more content to watch her face for a minute, as if assuring himself that she was real. Then, he would leave, and return only at the next meal time.

It was on the twelfth day that he came between mealtimes, carrying nothing. For once, Belle did not feel as though she had the upper hand, and she frowned in confusion.

"It has come to my attention that locking up one's caretaker is less than efficient." He did not look at her.

"Oh?" She folded her hands in her lap. "And who brought this to your attention?"

He did not speak. Then, "The castle."

Not answering, she stood up and smoothed out her dirty dress, then turned to him expectantly. He didn't look at her, just pivoted to face the door and walked out, leaving it open for her.

She didn't know where he would deem her services necessary, so she followed him in silence. They crossed the main hall, and Belle took in all the wreckage—the broken glass, smashed china, ruined treasures. Had he smashed those? Had someone attacked?

He led her past the kitchen and a few other parlors, up the stairs to the second floor. Their destination turned out to be the room he'd given her after her first week in the dungeons. He opened the door and then stepped aside to let her through.

"I expect dinner on the table in an hour," he said.

Her steps around the room were slow so that she could look it over. It was exactly as she'd left it, down to the marking in the book she'd been reading. When she'd inspected every inch, she circled around to face him, raising her head.

"Do you, now?" she asked, folding her arms with slow, deliberate movements that he followed with his gaze until they stopped, and he had to move his eyes to her face.

"It's your job, dearie. We had a deal."

She shook her head with as much indifference as if they were debating an adjective to describe the weather. "Cooking wasn't mentioned in the initial deal, and to be frank, I don't feel like doing it."

His upper lip twitched and she could see his chest rising and falling with the effort to remain calm.

"We had a deal," he repeated.

"You want to talk about deals?"

He looked wary, but she knew that he would walk into this trap willingly. If anyone else had been this blasé, he'd have turned them to dust, but Belle knew he would not touch her.

"Let's make a deal." She took one step closer to him, the smile on her face not unlike the one he wore when he was in charge.

"What?" he asked, meeting her gaze with narrowed eyes.

"I'll cook again—" She pressed her lips together, watching his eyes narrow.

"I'm listening."

"—when you apologize."

He slammed the door on his way out.

* * *

Being confined to her bedroom was much like being confined to the dungeons, except a bit more comfortable. She wandered the room for about an hour, taking solace in the fact that she could now stretch her legs. It may have been a guest room, but it was the biggest one in the castle and it took her at least thirty seconds to do a full circuit of the room. She hadn't felt stir-crazy in the dungeon because she was too unhappy, but now that she had tasted freedom, seen her love, she thought she would burst if she didn't do something.

She conducted a thorough inspection of her room, and it was when she was losing hope that she found the knitting project she had started, tucked away into a drawer. It was meant to be a blanket for Rumpelstiltskin, but she had only gotten a hand-sized square done before everything had occurred. He didn't deserve a blanket right now, but she hoped that, by the time she finished it, he would.

Happy to have something productive to do, she flopped onto her bed with her pile of yarn. It felt wonderful to bury her face into something soft, and she breathed in the clean scent of her pillow.

Then, she breathed it in again, because the scent was different. It smelled like leather and magic and trees. It was a scent she recognized, from falling into its arms and leaning in to kiss it. She would recognize it anywhere.

Rumpelstiltskin, for all that he pretended not to care, had missed her enough to lay on her pillow. That, she thought, was enough reason to deserve a blanket.

* * *

His knock came after she had been confined for twenty-four entire hours. It was good that he had knocked, because she had removed her dirty dress, and she took the opportunity to hide his finished blanket and then hide herself under her quilt.

"Come in."

He opened the door, but did not step inside.

"Can I help you?" she asked, drawing the quilt more tightly around her thinning frame.

"Will you at least dust?"

She gave him a soft smile, and he looked away. "Yes. I will dust."

* * *

All of the dirt had been piling up from neglect, and it took her over an hour to dust the entire castle. When she finally returned to her room, she was coughing and sneezing, trying to keep her eyes from watering.

She started to pull off the smock she'd put on, when something on her pillow caught her eye. There was a folded letter, sealed in black wax with what was unmistakably the seal of the Dark One. Having no idea what it could contain, but curious, she slid a finger across the seal to break it. It was a large paper, and she prepared for the worst, but when it was open to its full extent, there were only two words.

_I'm sorry_.

She read it three times to let it sink in, and then a smile spread across her face. After ripping the words off, she searched her room for something to write with. She came up with a quill from her drawer and a bottle of what she hoped was red ink, not blood.

She didn't have magic, so she couldn't deliver the letter quite like he had, but she hoped her method was effective. Just under the ripped edge, she wrote _I forgive you_. Then, she folded it back up and slid it under the door.

It was only a minute before she heard him walk by and pick it up. The door handle moved as though he was about to open it, but then his footsteps started up again and he walked away.

Still, Belle smiled.

* * *

After she served him breakfast the next morning, he found her cleaning up in the kitchen. She didn't notice him until she turned to replace a dish on a shelf. When she did, she dropped the plate in surprise.

"You startled me," she said, forgoing an apology over the broken plate in favor of scolding him. He could always use a good scolding anyway.

"Accompany me on a walk."

She looked him up and down. She couldn't help but feel like he was about to lead her to the gallows, even though she knew that he wasn't. It was the stiffness of his back, the harshness of his seemingly nice words, the lack of endearment.

"Where are we going?" She bent down to pick up the pieces of the plate, watching him so that he wouldn't get startled or back away, thinking her indifferent.

Instead of answering, he spun on his toes and started out the door.

"Curiosity killed the cat, dearie. I'll meet you at the doors in three minutes."

She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing, and shook her head at the floor.

"Well then, it's very lucky I'm not a cat, isn't it?" she called after him.

* * *

They walked in silence, two feet of space between them. He started them on the driveway, but as soon as the shrubbery cleared enough to fit a person, he guided her out to the grounds. It looked just as it did from her window—pretty and green, but altogether plain. He had a few trees here and there, but the only flower was the heather that grew naturally.

He broke the silence near the back of the castle, where the trees had thinned and the grounds were covered in gnarly, half-dead roots. "I have a job for you, dearie."

Hands clasped together in front of her, she looked at his profile. For once, he didn't look like he was trying to avoid her. Instead, he was surveying his grounds, fingers together at his chest. When his gaze did return to her, he whipped his head away like she'd spat on him.

"Yes?" she said.

"The garden." He swept his hand out, taking it all in. "It's a little bare for my tastes."

She continued to watch his profile, eyes narrowed. She didn't know exactly how old the Dark One was, but she had the feeling that he had been living in harmony with his bare garden for decades, at least.

"And what are your tastes for it?"

"Oh, I'm easy to please, dearie." He whipped his head to glare at her when she snorted with laughter. "Plant whatever you'd like. Tend to it. Make sure it doesn't all die."

Belle stopped walking. On a basic level, he was asking her to be a gardener as well as a housekeeper, but that wasn't what gave her pause. It was the fact that he was asking for her opinion, for her to put her personal touch on something so big—for her to stay long enough to watch the garden grow and flourish.

"Something wrong, dearie?" He was not looking at her, though, and she knew that he knew what she was thinking. He knew what he was asking.

If she said anything about what she knew, she would upset the delicate balance that they had struck. She also might cry. This next sentence had to be perfect. She started walking again.

"Do you like cherry blossom trees?"

He glanced at her. "If you like them, I'm sure I will eventually."

She wasn't sure if that was a no, or just a way of skirting the question. She tried another. "I'm fond of roses. What about rose bushes surrounding the castle walls? I could plant different colors."

"If you insist on making the dark castle colorful, then I suppose it shall be done."

She looked at him, and he was watching her out of the corner of his eye, impish grin twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"You know, the grounds are very large. It'll be difficult for me to spruce up the whole thing all by myself. Perhaps it would be more practical if we did it together?" She clasped her hands in front of her.

It was Rumpelstiltskin's turn to stop walking. He pivoted to face her, and she shifted slowly until she mirrored his stance. It was like the first time they'd kissed—he scoured her face like it was a treasure map with a hidden riddle, searching for a message buried in the depths. As she had then, Belle tried to keep herself open. She didn't want to hide anything from him, because she wanted him to believe. It may have seemed useless, but she knew he could—she just had to believe in him first.

"Why did you stay?" he whispered.

Belle had to smile. "For the same reason I came back."

He looked at her, his wide, black eyes boring into her own blue ones, his face smoothing with every passing second that he watched her.

"My power doesn't mean more to me than you do."

Even though she had said this to herself hundreds, thousands of times, the relief that coursed through her to hear the sentiment from her true love's own mouth made her laugh. He looked alarmed at this, like a scared animal preparing to back away, until she placed a cold hand on either cheek.

"Belle—"

"Rumpelstiltskin, I love you."

"And I love you, but—"

She started to push herself onto her toes, preparing to close the distance between them with what they'd both been waiting for, but he turned his head.

"Rumpelstiltskin—?"

"I can't let you break the curse."

His voice was low and hoarse enough that she would have liked to pretend that she hadn't heard him correctly, but she knew exactly what he'd said. She felt like the seams inside of her were tearing, like her ribcage was folding itself backward to expose her heart so that it could be ripped out at will. She let her hands slide down his cheeks, taking a step back.

Then, he looked at her, and the bald misery in his eyes forced her to stitch herself back together, at least for now.

"Why not?"

There were thousands of things she might have expected him to say—he wasn't ready to let go, or he needed to make just one more deal, or he didn't want to be weak. What she was not expecting was what he said.

"My son."

She was so shocked that even the tears welling up behind her eyes stopped what they were doing. For the first time in months, she took a long, hard look at him. No matter how green his skin or how bug-like his eyes, he had never looked more human.

"What?"

"I need to find my son." He looked at her, pleading. "I lost him, because I couldn't give up my power, and now I need it to find him again."

Belle's heart ached, a feeling that she thought only existed as metaphor, but which she had learned was all too real. It ached for Rumpelstiltskin, the imp who was also a man, who was also a father, who was also the love of Belle's life. She wanted to press his hand to her heart, to try and fill it with warmth and assure him that it would always be his. She wanted to cup his cheek, to tell him that he would find his son, and she would help him, stand by him always.

"Please, Belle—"

She threw herself into his arms, wrapping her own around his shoulders so that it was easier to bury her face in his mottled chest, slicking it with tears because his shirt was unbuttoned in just such a way that it did not shield him from her eyes.

"Belle!" Instead of wrapping his arms around her, as he should have, he took hold of her shoulders and pulled her off of him, bending down to look at her face. "Belle? What's wrong?"

"You. Your son. You miss your son. You miss your son."

She knew he must have been confused. She'd been so careful never to let him see her cry, never to do this in front of him, even when she had a reason, and now here she was, weeping on him like a child because he missed his son and she was sentimental.

"Belle—please—I do love you, I'm not pushing you away, I swear—"

"I know." She forced a smile, so that he would know that they weren't tears of sadness, but tears of sympathy, of empathy, of catharsis.

"You do?"

She took one of his hands off of her arm, and pressed it to the top of her dress, where even she could feel her heart pounding.

"Belle?"

"My heart is yours, Rumpelstiltskin, and even if I cannot kiss you and cannot break the curse, I will stay by your side. I will do whatever I can to help you find your son. I won't leave you."

"Oh, Belle." His voice was so hoarse, it was hardly there. "Belle." He drew her closer, watching her tear-stained face. "Belle." He buried his face in her chest, wrapping his arms around her and repeating her name, over and over, like a chanted blessing.

Belle threaded her fingers through his hair, and whispered, "Rumpelstiltskin."


	2. Chapter 2

Rumpelstiltskin sat at his wheel, and Belle watched from the table while she prepared their tea. Every so often, his face would twitch, and Belle's heart would feel like it was filling with air. In these moments, she knew he was thinking about her instead of all that had plagued him in life, and when she in turn thought about him, she couldn't keep her face still either.

"Tea?" She picked the tray up, and started for the wheel.

His neck snapped up audibly at the sound of her voice, and Belle could have twirled at the lightness in her feet.

"Oh—yes, eh—thank you." He swallowed, shifting in his seat so that she would have room to sit with him, as she had done the first time.

"There are scones, too." She gestured to the tea tray, settled upon the table he'd brought over 'for his materials' that had since only held tea things.

"Good."

With holding her teacup, she only had one unoccupied hand to flap like a fish out of water in her lap, so she clenched a fistful of skirt and timed her breaths to make sure she didn't stop taking them. Rumpelstiltskin's fingers moved against his lap like he was tapping out the erratic rhythm to a fast-paced song.

"Have you—" Belle began, just as Rumpelstiltskin said, "The tea—" and they both sucked in breath, pressing their lips together.

"I should let you spin," she said, starting to stand. Invading his private time was not the way to make him comfortable.

His hand shot out to grab hers so quickly, he might have used magic. "No. Stay." He swallowed and looked at his wheel, and she lowered herself back onto the small bench.

"Okay."

It only took a few twists of her hand to have her fingers woven through his, and when their eyes met, they both flushed.

They determined, in silence, that only one hand was required to drink tea.

* * *

"Stop what you are doing," he whispered, lips by her ear, and she almost hit him with a wooden spoon in surprise. He hadn't been behind her a second before.

"Rumpelstiltskin!" She twisted around to face him instead of the stove, still clutching her spoon like a sword.

He stepped back, looking like a boy who was preparing to present his mother with a live frog. Then, with a flourish of his arm and a slight bow, he produced a golden necklace woven from his own thread and hung with sapphire.

"A token, my lady." He sunk deeper into his bow, and Belle could no more keep the scold on her face than she could stop being in love.

"Why, thank you." She curtsied, then turned so that her back was facing him, pulling her hair to the side.

"So eager to present the monster with your neck, dearie?" His voice whispered over the shell of her ear as his hands came around to drape the thread over her throat.

"Eager to present the man I love with my neck."

His fingers trailed along her skin, and she shivered, letting go of her hair.

"That's dangerous territory, sweetheart." He tilted her head to the side, and before she could respond, his teeth were brushing her neck.

"Is it?" She felt like she was breathing through a pot of bubbling water, and she swayed back toward him.

"Indeed." His lips left her skin with one last, feather-light brush, and then he was stepping away from her. "Will we be eating soon?"

She turned around, pleased by the way his eyes lingered at the pendant above her breast, creases in his face softened as they always were now when he looked at her. She wished that he could stay with her, continue what he had tried to start, but they both knew that was walking through dangerous terrain.

"Sooner if you help me." She gestured to the bowl of dough where she'd been braiding small loaves of bread.

He looked as though she had just bested him in a game of wits, lip turned up in quiet admiration, and sauntered over.

* * *

The first night that Rumpelstiltskin had startled Belle awake, he'd claimed to have heard a noise. He did the same on the second night, after he got into the narrow bed beside her. On the third night, she made a noise so that he wouldn't have to lie.

On the fourth, she invited herself into his bed, because it was bigger, and then neither of them would have to lie.

"I don't sleep," he insisted. "We can't do this every night."

She wrapped herself around him like an affectionate boa constrictor, tucking her head up under his chin. "You'd prefer to keep pretending to hear noises?"

His face twitched atop her head. "I do hear noises." But he did not protest again.

* * *

When the Queen came to visit, Rumpelstiltskin locked Belle in a closet with a basket of pastries, an enchanted lantern, and three books. She spent ten minutes pacing the enlarged floor, trying to wear holes in it with her feet, but then the books arrested her attention.

Rumpelstiltskin threw the door open as she was finishing one, and gathered her in his arms, paying no mind to the bread basket or lantern.

"Rumple, what—"

"She will never, ever touch you." He buried his face in her neck, and she swallowed her comments when his coarse hair tickled her chin.

"I trust you," she said. "I love you."

His arms clenched around her, like he was still surprised to hear the words after so long. "I love you," he hissed to her neck, pressing his lips to her dress.

* * *

Sometimes, Belle's longing to press her mouth to Rumpelstiltskin's brought hot tears to her eyes, and they would each have to shut themselves away from each other. She'd discovered the magical information section of her library, and devoured books on curses, on fairy magic, on fate. She needed to know if there was a way he could keep his magic without his curse—after all, the queen wasn't cursed. She had magic.

She was not willing to test it without proof, though, and Rumpelstiltskin's son would always be more important than their True Love—even to her.

* * *

Winter found Belle holed up with the flu while Rumpelstiltskin was away on business for a few days. She made a nest of every warm blanket she could find, and hibernated in front of the roaring fire in his bedroom until his return.

After he'd healed her, face almost pale beneath the gold, he spent long minutes pacing the room. Sometimes, he would shake his head, like he was having an argument with someone only he could see. When he stopped walking, he turned his full attention to her, making her shrink into her blanket cave.

"I've packed you a bag," he said, snapping his fingers. "We're going somewhere warm."

"What?"

"I have business in Agrabah."

Belle couldn't breathe, and it had nothing to do with her bout of sickness. "You're taking me to Agrabah?"

"On business."

She didn't know why he still had to pretend to be cold and unfeeling, not when they were in love, but that didn't matter. Belle scrambled out of bed, her mind already racing through every book she'd ever read on Agrabah, cataloguing places and things she wanted to see.

"How do I dress?"

He snapped his fingers again, and she was wearing her golden dress, as well as a lightweight silk traveling cloak. His gaze lingered on her, and she knew part of his reason for selecting this dress was because they cut an impressive figure together this way.

"When do we leave?" she asked. His only answer was to offer his arm.

* * *

She returned from Agrabah with sun-burnt cheeks, and more jewelry than she knew what to do with in the Dark Castle. A few days later, Rumpelstiltskin was called away to business on the coast, and brought her with him 'to help bargain,' though she never met the man making the deal. After that, they ventured to a sunny country known for olives, and Belle acquired oils and fruits that she'd never heard of.

He stopped giving excuses when they went places, though he never outright said that it was for her, and wherever they went, he always made sure that she had something to remember their trip by.

She could not hold his hand while they were out, because if someone saw them, it could put Belle's life in danger. Instead, she held his arm like a noble lady being escorted to a ball, and she put on a blank face when he sneered at people, and when they stole minutes alone, she pressed her face into his neck and kept her lips to herself.

* * *

It was Spring, and with the sun shining through the open curtains, Belle could think of nothing better to do than to tuck herself into the window seat with a good book. Even better was when he moved his wheel closer to the window so that all she had to do to hold his hand was reach out.

"Belle." He settled himself on the ledge by her feet, pressed against the wall like he was too afraid to touch her.

"Hmm?" She looked up from her book, uncurling her legs so that she could nudge his thigh with her bare toes.

He jumped, head snapping down to stare at her feet, then cleared his throat. "We need to talk."

She frowned, marking her page and setting her book next to her. "What's wrong?"

"You know that I would never leave you, don't you?"

"I had hoped you wouldn't," she said, warmth spreading from her toes against his thighs all the way to her cheeks. He had never said anything of this nature out loud.

"I may start to disappear again, without warning." He rubbed his fingers together, watching his wheel.

"Okay." She wasn't surprised—he used to do it all the time, and she assumed that the only reason he hadn't recently was because she'd been going with him.

"I need you to know, Belle, that if I ever intend to be gone longer than three days, I will tell you. Do you understand me?"

"I think so?" She frowned, watching him fidget in his seat like a restless boy.

"I mean, if I am ever gone longer without notice, it was not my intention." He looked over at her, eyes huge and black. "It means something has happened."

It felt like tiny ants were chewing on her ribcage. "What sort of something?"

He looked away. "It could be anything. But if I am gone for longer than three days, you must leave. Go back home, have your adventure. Get out of the castle while you still can."

"While I can?"

"Please, Belle." His hands fluttered, so she took hold of them in hers. "I need to know you'll be safe."

"What about you? Why can't you be safe?"

He twirled one of his fingers in the air. "I'll be fine. A monster is never truly in danger."

"Stop that, I'm serious."

He scooted over until he could reach to cup her cheek. "As am I. I will be safe from any harm. Will you be?"

She nodded, resting her hand atop his. "I promise."

* * *

The first time he disappeared, Belle couldn't eat. She dusted and mopped and scrubbed every inch of castle by the door and his wheel—the places he was most likely to return. When he appeared before her a day and a half later, she clung to him, giving him no chance to remove the stiff scarf or scaly vest.

"I was hardly gone," he said, patting her on the shoulder.

"I know. I just missed you," she said, running her hands along his back, just in case there were any injuries.

He rested a hand in her hair, letting her fuss over him.

* * *

She slept curled up next to him every night, until the night he stopped sleeping. He sat on the bed, reading a book until she drifted off, and when she awoke an hour later, he was gone. After that, he stayed at his wheel when she went to bed, leaving her to sleep with only his sheets for company. By now, they smelled more like her than they smelled like him.

"Are you coming to bed?" she'd ask him.

"Soon."

But night after night, she lay awake and alone, wishing she could at least hear the sounds of his spinning wheel to soothe her.

* * *

He came home with a new cloak, and she watched him pluck a hair off of it, and then drop it into a bottle with another hair. It glowed purple, and Rumpelstiltskin leaned back in his chair with a popping sigh of satisfaction.

"What is that?" she asked, coming no closer than the doorway to his workroom.

"True Love." He watched the vial glow, jiggling it to swirl the iridescent purple liquid like a tiny galaxy in a bottle. "Finally got hair from Snow White and Prince Charming."

Belle stared at him, dust rag hanging limp in her fingers. "Why didn't you just use our hair?"

His gaze strayed from the bottle to her, and his Adam's apple bobbed. He didn't answer, but she didn't need him to. Without another word, she left the room.

* * *

Belle moved into the library. There was no reason to sleep in Rumpelstiltskin's vast, empty room if he himself was not in it, and she was comforted by the books. She didn't sleep on nights that he disappeared, but neither did she wait for him.

They took tea together, and Belle read on the windowsill next to him when he spun, but they were miles apart. It was like she'd just arrived again, but he wouldn't yell at her anymore. They hardly spoke.

Love was not quite the adventure she'd planned, and it was time to have a real one.

* * *

She absorbed geography books and books on local legends. She decided not to go anywhere Rumpelstiltskin had already taken her, which did not narrow her choices down as much as she'd have hoped—the world was bigger than she could ever have imagined. She could now translate four different languages, though whether or not she could speak them was questionable.

Rumpelstiltskin walked in on her repeating phrases in an ancient tongue. "What are you doing?"

"Learning," she said, tongue feeling odd in her mouth as it tried to make familiar sounds.

"Always a wise idea. What for?"

She looked up from the table she'd appropriated as a desk and met his eyes. He swallowed. "I'm preparing for an adventure."

"Biding your time until I disappear, eh?" His voice was almost high-pitched, but couldn't quite reach his showman's tone. His fingers flapped by his side.

"No." She raised her chin. "I thought I would leave next week."

He didn't argue. She knew he wouldn't. He hadn't paid her mind in months, all but ignoring the fact that she was supposed to be a housekeeper and caretaker. His mouth twitched, like he was clenching his teeth against something rising in his throat.

"You're leaving," he said, voice flat.

"I'll come back," she said, deflating like a balloon, though her chin remained upturned. She thought she might cry. She thought he might.

"No you won't," he said, and then he disappeared.

* * *

She didn't leave. Rumpelstiltskin was hurting, and that was why he was pushing her away, and she should have known it all along. He may not have believed she could truly love him, but he loved her, and each time that week that he looked at her, she could see the anguish behind his too-big eyes.

He spun more than usual, sometimes spending entire days at his wheel, and after they'd both stewed over her departure in silence for nine days, she sat herself down with him and plucked his hands away from the wheel.

"Come to say goodbye, dearie?"

It hurt, but it wasn't said with any of the venom he normally used. He was watching her like she had a hand inside of him, twisting around his heart and lungs and ribs while he could only look on.

"No." She laid a hand on his knee. "I'm not going. Unless—" She bit her lip, trailing off.

"Unless?"

"Unless you refuse to sleep at night."

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"Rumpelstiltskin." She leaned forward, almost touching his nose with hers. "I miss you. I've missed you all these months. Our love is just as true as Snow White and Prince Charming's, no matter what you think about yourself. Please. Come back to me."

He rocked his head back and forth, not quite denying her, but not agreeing with her either. He reached out and cupped her cheek, and she closed her eyes against the now-foreign feel of his fingertips.

"Belle," he rasped, hand tightening. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I'll be gone soon."

It was only a matter of time—she understood that now. He didn't think that something might happen to him, he knew that something was going to.

"Then we'd better make the best of the time we have left."

* * *

She slept with him curled around her like a snake, and sometimes she awoke with back and neck pain, but she never asked him to move and she never moved herself. He didn't sleep, but he was always still, and she never wanted the feel of him holding her like the world was ending around them to go away.

* * *

She couldn't find him. He'd asked her specifically to bring his boots to him in his tower, where he would be waiting, and now he was nowhere to be found. Was this what he meant? Had he known he was just going to vanish into thin air?

"Rumple?" She looked around. Perhaps he was tucked into a corner, studying something. "Rumpelstiltskin?"

He materialized behind her with a tiny _pop_ just to startle her, and she screamed, dropping the boots. He grinned, every inch her impish lover from the first few weeks, and waved the boots onto his feet.

"Careful, sweetheart, you'll scuff the leather."

"Well, perhaps you shouldn't startle me, then." She brushed off her skirt, then rested her hands on her hips.

He sunk into a bow, throwing his arm out in a flourish. "My apologies, my lady. Here—for your troubles." He extended his finger, and golden ring dangled on the end of it.

Belle's eyes widened, and as she reached forward to accept the ring, he snatched it back. Stepping closer, he gestured to her finger.

"May I?"

Feeling like she might cry, she nodded, holding out her left hand. It was neither a traditional wedding ring nor an engagement ring, but he slid it onto her ring finger like a priest had just pronounced them man and wife, twisting it until the small sapphire faced up. When it was to his satisfaction, he bent down to kiss her knuckles.

"Thank you," she said, sounding like there was food caught in her throat. "I love you."

"And I love you." He looked up at her, face soft and human, and Belle threw her arms around his neck.

* * *

If she was going to wear his pseudo-wedding ring, then he was damn well going to wear hers. The problem with this was that she was not a master craftsman as he was, and also did not have access to fine jewels that weren't already his or given to her by him. She had no doubt that he would wear her ring even if it was made of parchment, but she wanted it to be more special than that—something that would last as long as his would.

Her only real options were to sew it or to use something of his, and the piles of golden thread that he paid no attention to called to her like a good book. She could braid him a ring, and it would be like a little piece of both of them.

His fingers were small, so she measured it against her thumb. It took her several tries to get something thin enough and small enough, but after a day or so, she had a working ring that she could present her love when he got home.

She waited with tea until well past sundown, then drank a cup herself and put away the scones. He'd be late today, then, and would probably expect her to be in bed when he returned, so she brought a book up to their room and waited.

It was some time around dawn that she fell asleep, and when she awoke a few hours later, he was still gone. She dusted the bedroom, the entrance hall, his wheel. She cleaned the kitchen, scrubbed the floors, polished the armor. She washed the windows, beat the curtains, laundered the bed linens. She made dinner, ate dinner, and put dinner away.

She put Rumple's ring on next to her own and paced the entrance hall. She tried to read but found only squiggles on the pages. She lit a fire and stared into it. She did not sleep.

She waited five days. Three days was not long enough, whatever Rumpelstiltskin said, so she waited five. She waited a sixth.

Rumpelstiltskin was not coming back.

* * *

She spent another two days preparing. He could come back. He could. He might. She just needed to have faith.

She couldn't take much food, but she could take golden thread, and that would have to be enough. It was lightweight, and she packed her knapsack full of it, stuffing in books and a knife and flask where she could. She stuffed in an extra handful just for new clothes—she couldn't go off on an adventure dressed like a maid, or her skirts would get caught whenever she tried to do anything.

Leaving was inevitable. She tried to prolong her trip as much as she could, praying that Rumpelstiltskin would return with a giggle and a story, but it was futile. There was danger here, and it multiplied every day that she remained.

She cleaned the castle one last time, from top to bottom. If Rumple did return, he wouldn't return to ruins.

As she was going through his closet, checking for any wrinkled shirts needing to be pressed, she found something a little less violent than what he usually wore—a little more feminine and soft. Frowning, she yanked the jerkin and breeches out of the closet, and found that they were for a woman—taken in at the waist, let out at the chest, shapely.

"What—" She stopped, eyes falling to the note pinned to the sleeve.

_For your adventure, Belle. Love, Rumpelstiltskin_.

She pressed her hand over her mouth and sank to the floor. Why did he have to know everything?

* * *

The Yaoguai took Rumpelstiltskin by surprise. He knew she'd be able to translate the myth, but watching her in action through the mirror was like listening to a suspenseful tale—he couldn't stop. She'd proven herself a hero again and again, and if it wasn't for Baelfire, he would have escaped this prison to congratulate her. Instead, he put his mirror away, contenting himself with the fact that she was alive, and following her dreams.

* * *

He didn't sleep in the cell, because it was a cell and he rarely needed sleep, but he did hang from the ceiling like a bat and lose himself in thought when he felt like resting. He may not have been able to cast spells, but he was magic no matter what, and clinging to the walls with his human toes and fingers was an easy feat.

_Rumpelstiltskin!_

His eyes snapped open, and he gripped the ceiling ridges tighter. Who was calling him?

_Rumpelstiltskin!_

He'd had nightmares about that desperate voice, crying out for help he could not give. He hissed, uncurling himself and landing on the floor. He would not check the mirror. There was nothing he could do for her. If she was in danger now, he wouldn't even be able to break out of the cell in time to save her.

_Rumpelstilts—_

He snarled. Why had she cut off? The mirror was in his hand before he knew he'd reached for it. "Show me Belle," he whispered. The mirror's surface swirled, but never settled.

"I said, _show me Belle_!"

It was like watching a storm, but sped up. The purple clouds of magic rolled across the mirror, but nothing appeared. There was no Belle, and no one was calling his name. He shook it, he hissed at it, he shouted loud enough to rouse the guards, and still nothing happened.

Belle was gone.


End file.
